Mercy Rule
Summary: Two rival football teams battle it out to get to the Nationals. But what happens when opposing players become star-crossed lovers? Mainly Spamano, USUSK, GerIta with side pairings.
Rating: T
Pairing(s): SpaMano, USUK, GerIta, PruCan, hints of FrancexEveryone
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
Notes: The decision made in the poll on my profile is included here. Also, as noted by Toni later, there are two weeks left before the big game.
Lovino cringed as he awoke, a searing pain striking the inside of his calf as he dared move an inch.
He had been stupid and reckless in sneaking in and out of Elizabeta's home. Antonio had kindly led him there - which was surprisingly closer than the Italian had assumed it would be- and even helped boost him into the second story of her home. However, the sun had started rising by the time she had finished covering his love-wound and he had begun to panic. Not even the Spaniard could have foreseen the sheer stupidity Lovino exhibited as he carelessly hopped out of the window, into a tree, then tumbled foot-first onto the ground.
He was beginning to realize that both Feliciano and Romulus probably would have been simple enough to believe it was a bruise and his teammates would only care for a good ten minutes before moving on with their day.
The Italian wiped his forehead and peeked out of the window. The days were beginning to get hotter as summer waned on, which meant that the big show-down couldn't have been too far away. He pulled off his covers and forced himself up and out of bed, stretching like a cat the instant his back left the mattress. He glanced over to the other side of the room to see Feliciano's bed lone and made, the house phone propped up on his bedside table.
"Who does he even have to call? It's not like he has any friends," the boy muttered. He trudged over to his closet and pulled off his shirt.
Eying his physical progress, he frowned in dissatisfaction. Sure, he had gained a few bits of definition here and there but his stomach remained as ultimately rebellious as Alfred's defiant hair. He huffed and grabbed a simple red shirt sporting his ancestor's country flag flowing in the nonexistent breeze. After pulling on cargo shorts and combing a hand through his tolerably unkempt hair, he made his way to the kitchen.
The smell of breakfast sausage filled the air and he was greeted with the sight of his brother picking at his meal. He wore an almost confused expression as he ate, nibbling on small pieces of a strangely dark pancake chopped up on his plate. Lovino watched curiously.
"Fratello?" He questioned. The boy met his eyes and gestured to the box of mix staring from the counter.
"Whole-wheat," he whispered. His obvious objection to the food was apparent in his tone; not an ounce of miserable morning shadowed by his blatant distaste on the subject. Lovino sympathized with him.
"It's not the same," he agreed.
Opting for a bowl of apple-cinnamon oatmeal, due to Romulus ridding the house of sugar-coated cereals, the elder Vargas took a seat a seat away from his brother. The air between them was much less tense than before, their normal routine finally as balanced as before. There was a nervous twitch of Feliciano's eyes, however, as he ate sluggishly. He seemed almost antsy as he watched his brother eat and took care to take as long as possible.
"Hurry up, we've got to get to practice," Lovino scolded him. The younger nodded and dumped out the remains of his food into the garbage.
"I haven't showered or anything yet so I'll just meet you there,ve~" he offered. His voice was trembling yet firm in it's pseudo-reassuring tone, going over his brother's head as he nodded in understanding.
"Yeah, yeah, just don't be too late. Nonno will have my head," he responded simply. Feliciano rushed out of the kitchen, leaving Lovino to roll his eyes at his brother's strangeness.
"Weirdo," he dismissed it.
Feliciano didn't stop fretting in his paranoia until he had heard silence ringing through-out his household. He hadn't ever done this before and was fairly worried about the consequences.
"I'll tell them I got lost, ve, " he thought aloud. "That's not too far-fetched."
Dressed in a black shirt - of which he had forgotten he ever owned - and baggy green cargo shorts, the Italian looked nothing like his average self. This was good, he reflected, as it would be harder for him to be caught.
"Or maybe I'll limp around and say I sprained my ankle on the way there," he pondered. His mind drifted back to Lovino, who had a mysterious limp that went largely unexplained.
He wasn't sure he wanted to hear an explanation in all honesty. He didn't want to know what the boy had done in his time away with their rival and he most definitely could go the rest of his life without knowing if the Spaniard was good in bed or not.
Felicano shuddered.
"It's only fair that I get time alone with my love interest," he decided. With his flawless logic in mind, the Italian walked out his back door and set off towards the neighborhood park.
The sun never looked quite as dim as it did this morning.
Anxiety piled in the Frenchman's stomach, weighing down on his morning with a vengeance. He figured he should just get it over with, the Spaniard was sure to be awake by now.
"And I'll have to wake him if he's not," he stated warily.
He wasn't sure what he was going to say. What was there to say when it came to a confrontation? Sure, he could be rude about it and lecture the boy on how he was making a terrible decision that was reckless and stupid and completely irrational.
But that was love, wasn't it?
Francis shook his head. He couldn't get wrapped up in his thoughts again. It was now or never.
With a deep breath, he walked over to Antonio's room. The door was cracked open - Francis wasn't sure if he was relieved or even more distilled with nervousness - and beckoning to him. He didn't pause to calm himself or give a pep talk, but simply walked right in.
He was awake.
"Antonio," the Frenchman started lamely, "We need to talk."
Said boy, who was lounging on his bed and staring blankly at the Spanish flag on his wall, turned to face his friend. His default smile spread across his lips and he nodded, scooting over a bit as if inviting Francis to take a seat. The blond did so without hesitation, sitting across from the Spaniard with locked eyes.
"Tell me you were alone last night," he ordered boldly. Antonio's smile dropped a bit, a flame of defiance dancing in his eyes.
"Ah, but I would never lie to you, my friend," he offered in return.
Ignoring the stab of anger spreading in his chest, the Frenchman tried again.
"Tell me there wasn't a Vargas in this house last night," he insisted. The Spaniard paused a bit before shaking his head.
"It was closer to the morning than the night," he argued, "But I would still be lying if I told you that."
Francis frowned in disappointment - a part of him still clinging to the idea that it had been someone else; someone who wasn't Lovino - and sighed deeply.
"You know better than to take your team's rival into your private living space," he scolded him.
This only fueled the burning rebellion in the forest of green, adding a hint of annoyance into the mix.
"You bring people home all the time, Francis," he pointed out.
"My career isn't going to be at stake when it comes to the people I bring home," Francis countered lowly.
Antonio rolled his eyes and narrowed his eyes ever-so slightly.
"He's more than an opponent. He's a person," he answered.
"A person that could easily screw you over in the tournament."
The Spaniard sighed frustratedly, clenching one of his now-fisted hands. Francis watched him carefully, aware of the irritation he was causing. He wanted a fight, not a discussion. He wanted to air the tension out instead of having to avoid his friend, and the only way two stubborn men could compromise would be to use all the building passion inside them.
"He could be using you for all you know," the Frenchman went on. He almost cheered at the darkening of the Spaniard's eyes.
"He's not using me," he stated simply. "He wouldn't do that."
Francis scoffed and crossed his arms, an argument already forming in his head.
"Just like he wouldn't permanently cripple a rival teammate?" That had easily struck a nerve.
Antonio closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath - whether to calm himself or to express disappointment was unknown to Francis - before directing a hard stare at the Frenchman. He didn't speak, but the emotion was evident in his somewhat-pleading/somewhat-challenging eyes.
"He's not good for you," he continued; unaffected. Their vision was locked with one another's eyes, neither of them daring to so much as blink.
"He makes me happy," the Spaniard answered. His voice was sure and contained, unwavering in the stare-down between he and his stubborn friend.
Francis narrowed his eyes, clearly unshaken by the intensity.
"You shouldn't be so reckless-"
"As if I can control it," the boy interrupted.
The Frenchman broke the staring match by turning his head away. He sighed and shook his head, a war-zone battling fiercely in the back of his head.
"Coach won't like this."
Antonio froze, a dangerous glint in his eye. Before the blond could even blink, he was pinned down harshly against the wall. He grunted in surprise, his eyes widening at the sudden seriousness of the situation.
"Coach doesn't need to know," the Spaniard warned, his voice low with a crisp accent laced between his words.
Francis didn't budge.
"No promises," he spat back.
He felt the grip on his shirt tighten for a few seconds before being released completely. He simply adjusted his shirt as if he hadn't just seen his life flash before his eyes, not noticing the Spaniard watching patiently.
"Francis, don't," he sighed. "We don't need the team breaking up when we're just two weeks away."
The Frenchman met his eyes - noting the distinct brightness of green mixed with only a smudge of darkness - and decided it was safe to answer.
"Give me three damn good reasons not to," he compromised.
Antonio groaned and leaned his back against the wall; drained from the rush of emotions he had experienced a mere minute ago.
"You should be happy for me," he offered. "I'm in love. You know how wonderful that is."
Francis crossed his arms and stuck one finger out from his tightened fist.
"And you know, he really isn't that bad. He just doesn't know how to talk to people," he continued.
The Frenchman shook his head and peeped out a 'try again.'
"His brother's really cute."
Francis added another finger.
"And..and in that one match we played, he was the one that choked. I didn't even flinch when we faced off," was the final plead.
The blond considered the statement. It was true, the Spaniard held no mercy when it came to the field. Stubbornly, Francis held up one more finger. He held his hand up to Antonio's face.
"Three. But I need to double-check the second one. You've proven to have bad taste in men," he teased. The brunette broke out in a grin, not even bothering to hold back the hug he unleashed on his French friend.
"Gracias, Francis. Muchas gracias," he whispered thankfully.
The Frenchman couldn't help but smile slightly and, despite the lingering resentment he held for a certain Italian, hugged the boy back.
"He better be worth all this trouble," he grumbled.
"He is," Antonio answered confidently, "I promise."
After two hours of non-stop training, the Tomato Stompers finally were allowed a break.
Lovino trudged to the locker room with raw irritation swirling up from his stomach and creeping into his throat. Feliciano hadn't shown up for the whole of practice and had yet to call back after the thirteen phone calls his brother had made.
"Where the hell is he?" The elder Vargas growled. His skin was crawling with nervousness and anger at the thought of his brother's absence.
Never before had he missed a practice session. He knew the way to the field by heart, even proving that he could walk there and back in his sleep without any assistance. Which meant that he had either hurt himself on the way there, gotten extremely distracted, or just plain ditched.
"He better have a broken leg," the brunette muttered angrily. "Or else I'll just have to break it for him."
He grabbed a water bottle from the cooler and gulped half of it down, eyebrows furrowed as he leaned against the cool metal lockers. Arthur waited for him to finish before inquiring about his brother.
"Any word from-"
"No."
"Well could you check your-"
"No."
"Well where could he-"
"I don't know."
The Briton sighed in disappointment and looked to the floor in thought. He had gotten the hang of jogging during practice and was surprised at how little his ankle had hurt afterwards. He could probably get some more running in after the break and still not be too sore.
"He's still not here?" Lars questioned hesitantly.
The team knew of Lovino's hair-trigger temper and danced around it with caution. The Italian gave him a look that clearly read 'look around then tell me if he's here, idiot.'
"It's not like Feli to not show up," Yong Soo reflected aloud, "He's really dedicated."
"Not dedicated enough, apparently," Lovino said bitterly.
He made his way out of the locker room and back onto the field with the boys of the team following hesitantly behind. Elizabeta was waiting quietly on the bench, head turning every now and then as if expecting something to happen any time soon.
"He's not gonna show up," the elder Vargas said bluntly. She paid no attention to him, opting to continue her fidgety glancing around.
"This is Feli we're talking about. This isn't like him at all," she explained. Lovino combed a hand through his hair and sighed deeply.
"I think I know my fratello," he argued, "And if he hasn't come by now then he's not going to bother coming at all."
The team was silent, each noting the distinct lack of energy that resonated with the presence of the younger Vargas. He was usually bouncing off the walls, even after the longest practices they've ever had. His absence left a hole in the team; a hole that left the group vulnerable and open for a strike.
"Arthur, warm up. You're practicing," their coach called reluctantly.
The Briton blinked in surprise before rushing back to the locker room without a word, an excited grin spreading on his face. Lovino shook his head in annoyance before going over to his grandfather.
"Why is Kirkland in? He can't run," the boy complained. Romulus held up a hand to silence the boy.
"Feliciano didn't show up," he stated obviously, "We need someone to fill in for him."
Lovino scoffed and crossed his arms; attitude evident with his every action.
"It's not permanent, Lovi," he assured the boy, "Calm down."
The Italian uncrossed his arms and pulled out his phone, dialing his brother's number in a last desperate attempt to contact him. He whispered a pleading mantra of 'answer the phone, answer the phone' as he waited for the ringing tone to be cut off by a cheery voice. When it wasn't, he groaned in frustration. After the automatic beep, he breathed out a message through grinding teeth.
"Feli, you're dead."
After one more hour of practice, Arthur had proven to be improving. He had jogged lightly across the field, only a few feet behind the action at all times, and even successfully dribbled the ball once or twice without injury.
"You did really well today, hyung," Yong Soo complimented him. The Briton thanked him as he stared at the ceiling to catch his breath; exhausted.
Lovino had left the second practice was announced over - probably on a search and destroy mission for his brother - along with Elizabeta and Romulus. Lars had disappeared a while after as per usual, waving to his remaining team-mates as he hopped into his sister's mini-van.
"The training you're getting must be helping," he said optimistically. Arthur hesitated, remembering back to the day when he found Yong Soo watching him and Alfred train, before answering.
"Yeah, it is," he agreed. His thoughts lingered on the American boy and his shouts of support, cheering him on as he had made it through half of 'Hero Bootcamp'. He smiled to himself, a sense of pride painting his cheeks a light pink.
Yong Soo smiled as soon as he spotted the blush, a knowing look in his eyes.
"How is that going?"
Arthur pulled himself out of his thoughts in a trance- the pink dusting his cheeks must had fogged up his mind, Yong Soo decided - and shrugged.
"Pretty good, I guess," he answered lamely. The Korean let his smile grow a inch wider.
"No, not the training," he clarified.
The blond stared at him in a confusion for a minute, not clearly understanding until Yong Soo made a suggestive gesture to him. He then sputtered in embarrassment and loudly denied any claims made about his relationship with Alfred.
"I'm kidding!" He assured the Briton in between fits of laughter. Arthur huffed and gathered his belongings.
"It's already sun-down," he explained before waving goodbye to the Korean. The brunette waved back, adding a 'see you tomorrow, da-ze~!', then followed his example and collected his own duffle bag.
Not bothering to change out, Yong Soo danced out of the locker room with content happiness. He had chosen to take the longer way home, allowing himself to get lost in the orange-tinted scenery he passed along the way.
The sun took it's sweet time setting, supplying the boy with more time to gaze in wonder at the smallest details; like how the petals of roses folded so beautifully and how the texture of clouds reflected almost perfectly in the duck-infested pond located in the local park. He took a detour around the park: first running over to the jungle gym to climb up on the monkey bars then swinging so high that he was sure he could taste the sky's rainbow sherbet.
Still bound with energy, but calming down considerably, he hung out on the swing for a bit. The plastic seat flowed left and right, front and back as he rocked in different directions with his feet. His hands gripped the rusty chains as his eyes wandered around the park. He spotted a young couple walking down the sidewalk, hands intertwined as they strolled.
"So sweet, da-ze~," he commented to himself. He tried his best not to stare, but there was something about the smaller one that caught his eye.
"Now that I notice, he looks kind of like.."
His eyes widened and he stopped swinging, frozen in shock. His heart began to pick up speed and he slowly got up off of the swing, creeping over to the jungle gym as quietly as possible. He climbed up into the pit of the structure and peeked out of the bars.
There was no mistaking the auburn locks or gravity-defying curl on the boy before him. Yong Soo pulled out his phone and automatically went to Lovino's name. He paused.
'No, don't start anything. If he doesn't know by tomorrow, then you can tell him,' he reasoned with himself.
With a final nod, the Korean quietly put his phone back and waited for the couple to walk out of sight before bolting home.
/AN/: I like to think Yong Soo would be that kid that's always in the wrong place at the wrong time. He's really fun to right for, though. Sorry this chapter isn't longer, but the next one will be riddled with conflict. Also, there will be a sequel to this, centering around two minor pairings.
Next: Feliciano supplies a turn in the plot and USUK gets some bonding time.
